of a burning metropolis . . . a candle suffocated within a megawatt lightbulb . . . a siren screaming from the inside of a funhouse mirror . . . we are at the gate of the den of thieves, where the mystic is stabbed with a smile, where the carrot looms large to the myopic vision of a generation chasing its own tail, dancing to the rhythm of a distant drummer, who is now blind and staggering towards the cliffs . . . |